by Dima Zales
“Sasha.” Her makeup is extra meticulous, and her summer dress looks like it came from a trendy fashion magazine. “Please come in.”
I step in. The apartment smells like Chanel perfume, fresh flowers, and exotic tea.
Rose leads me into the living room.
Vlad is standing by the window. The sun rays falling on his skin fully dispel one prevalent vampire myth—their UV light sensitivity.
Unless he has SPF 5000 on?
“Hello, Sasha.” The corners of his pitch-black eyes crinkle with a suggestion of a smile—which then instantly disappears, leaving behind the usual brooding mask.
Lucifur raises her head from the large pillow on the couch. Her flat face is a mix between grumpy and sleepy. She seems to want to say, “You? What is it with all these peasants disturbing Our Majesty’s tenth royal nap?”
Ignoring the cat’s glare, I walk to the couch and sit next to her pillow.
She dangerously vibrates when I dare to rub under her chin.
Can cats purr in indignation?
“So.” Rose sits down next to me, a cup of tea in hand. “What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”
I raise my eyebrows. “You can see it on my face or something?”
Vlad grunts something unintelligible while Rose just looks at me, unblinking.
Sighing, I tell them about my forced visit to Baba Yaga’s banya.
“You have to reconcile with Nero,” Vlad says when I’m done. “He can put a stop to this.”
“Nero and I are irreconcilable,” I say firmly. “I was hoping there’s some kind of police-like group in the Cognizant society that can help me instead?”
I flap my eyelashes innocently, as though I’ve forgotten that Vlad is the head of the Enforcers—a group that definitely sounds police-like. Or maybe SWAT-like. Or are they more like the type of secret police that dictators employ?
“I’m afraid the Council wouldn’t concern itself with your troubles,” Vlad says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Especially in light of the fact that Baba Yaga was on the Saint Petersburg Council in the past and has ambitions to be on the New York Council when a seat opens up.” He shrugs regretfully. “I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
“Though, of course, we are happy to help you in our unofficial capacity,” Rose says, giving Vlad a stern glare.
“Right,” he says, a bit too quickly. “In my unofficial capacity, I’d be happy to help you. I just don’t know how.” He looks like he’s about to swallow fermented cockroach larvae as he offers, “Perhaps I can escort you to Orientation?”
“Ariel can help me with that,” I want to say. But then I recall her absence and decide it’s time I learned more about vampire relationships, so I blurt instead, “What’s a blood whore?”
Tea spews from Rose’s mouth, and Vlad looks like he did swallow that larvae.
“Chester called Ariel by that term at Earth Club,” I hurriedly explain. “I think he was referring to her relationship with Gaius.”
“Oh,” Vlad says, the broody unreadableness back on his face. “I see.”
Rose also regains her composure. “Sasha was asking about vampire relationships, and I told her to come back so we could discuss it when you’re here,” she tells Vlad.
“And my query just became that much more urgent.” I mindlessly stroke Lucifur’s almost-chinchilla-soft fur and, surprisingly, don’t lose any fingers in the process. “We haven’t seen Ariel for days now. Her behavior has been erratic. She—”
“Gaius took a personal leave of absence from his duties.” Vlad stalks over to a chair and takes a seat, his back stiff. “He went to do something in Russia. Perhaps he took her with him?” It doesn’t sound like he believes the answer to be yes.
“I think Ariel would tell me if she was going on a trip, especially somewhere as exotic as Russia,” I say.
Rose pointedly stares at Vlad.
He grudgingly pulls out his phone and sends a text in that ultra-fast way that only vampires and teenage girls seem able to do.
The reply is instant.
“Ariel isn’t with Gaius.” Vlad locks eyes with Rose, and I wonder if he has Fluffster-like ability to have a secret telepathic conversation with her. “Gaius also said they’re not in a relationship.” He looks down at his phone. “He said, and I quote, ‘It’s just a casual, mutually beneficial arrangement. She means nothing to me.’”
Rose’s features darken.
“They are consenting adults,” Vlad tells her apologetically.
“Gaius is lying.” I fight the urge to get up, grab Vlad’s phone, and text that smug asshole some choice insults. “Ariel has been hanging out with him for the last—”
“Following someone around like a puppy does not a relationship make,” Vlad says, then looks at Rose’s even more furious expression. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
“This sort of thing happens to some who taste vampire blood.” Rose glances at Vlad, as if for some confirmation. When he nods, she says, “The experience is… extraordinary.”
“So… what? Are you saying Ariel is hooked on Gaius’s ‘extraordinary’ blood?” I look at Rose, then at Vlad.
They both dodge my gaze.
My worry intensifies. “Is she like a heroin addict or something?”
“More like a sex addict than a drug addict.” Vlad finally meets my gaze.
“It should be in a category of its own,” Rose says with a faint blush. “But suffice it to say that you need tremendous willpower if you’re going to imbibe such a strong substance. It also helps when you’re in a loving relationship with your drug of choice.” She gives Vlad such a heated stare that I half expect her to jump to her feet and start making out with him in front of me. Again.
“I don’t like this.” I give the cat another stroke. Magnanimous purring and my continued existence are my rewards. “Could it be that Ariel found another vampire to get blood from?”
Vlad shakes his head. “She drank from Gaius,” he says. When I look at him blankly, he explains, “His scent will be on her for weeks. It ruins the… appetite.”
“Riiight. We wouldn’t want sloppy seconds from another vampire.”
Rose chokes on her tea, and Vlad just shakes his head again.
“If she isn’t with another vampire, I have no idea where she could be,” I say.
“She could be in a human hospital.” Vlad pinches the bridge of his nose and frowns deeper than usual. “Depending on how much she’s been indulging, the withdrawal symptoms could be quite severe.”
“Withdrawal?” I suppress the urge to shout obscenities. “You said it was like sex.” I almost add, “I haven’t gotten any for two years, and I have no withdrawal symptoms, aside from occasional crankiness,” but this would be TMI.
“She could’ve checked herself into rehab,” Rose says soothingly. “There’s an excellent facility in Gomorrah that specializes in all manner of Cognizant addictions.”
“I don’t believe it.” Frustration enters my voice. “Wouldn’t she tell me if she was going to rehab?”
“She might’ve felt ashamed,” Rose says. “But you have a point. She’d at least concoct some story to explain her absence.”
Vlad stands up. “Can you bring me some of her hair? It’s time to put this question to rest.”
“Her hair?” I stare at him. “That might be hard to locate.”
“I could triangulate her whereabouts if I had her genetic material,” Vlad grudgingly explains. “It’s something my kind can do.”
I recall the lock of hair Gaius ripped from me at our initial meeting, and how he then found me in Vegas after the fight with Beatrice. This must be how he was able to do that—and why Ariel insisted he give the hair back.
Thinking about those events floods me with guilt. My misadventures are the reason she’d first tasted Gaius’s blood.
Putting these unhelpful thoughts aside, I focus on the practical implications of Vlad’s revelation. I now remember hazily contemplating sha
ving my head when I learned about this hair business, but Gaius’s glamour must’ve made me forget all about it.
Not that I would really shave my head, but maybe I’d get as OCD as Ariel about leaving my hair lying about.
Except she might not have OCD. Her hair might not break due to her super strength.
“I doubt I’ll find anything,” I say and explain Ariel’s hair situation. “But I will go look. It can be any DNA, right?”
I picture Vlad holding a used feminine hygiene product and find it difficult to keep my face straight.
“Yes, it can be anything.” Vlad walks up to the window and stares at the park below.
“Okay.” I launch to my feet. Having something to do gives me a small boost of energy. “Give me a minute.”
Rose walks me to the door.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper to her. “As soon as I can.”
“I’ll make sure Vlad stays here until you get back.” She squeezes my hand reassuringly and opens the door.
“Thanks,” I say, exiting the apartment.
“No problem.” Rose smiles and closes the door.
Given that she doesn’t know Ariel that well, I’m extremely grateful she’s nudged Vlad to help.
I start walking toward my apartment, then hear the elevator arrive.
Crap.
In my worry about Ariel, I’ve completely forgotten about my own vulnerable situation.
The elevator doors slide open.
I pull out the gun.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Sasha.” Felix’s face is white, his eyes bulging. “Don’t point that at me.”
I quickly hide the gun.
This situation is making me too jumpy. If Felix had turned out to be a neighbor, he might’ve called the cops on me after such a stunt—and I don’t think I would enjoy begging Vlad to get me out of that debacle with his glamour.
“You okay?” Felix steps out of the elevator.
“Let’s talk in the apartment,” I say and dash for the door.
Felix follows.
I pace the living room as I tell him and Fluffster what I just learned.
“The blood must’ve helped her deal with her PTSD,” Fluffster mentally says when I finish. “Must’ve worked better than those drugs she occasionally takes. At least this means she’s not bipolar.”
“Yeah,” Felix says, looking at Fluffster. “Blood addiction does explain a lot. The highs and lows of her mood. The disappearing act.”
“Except the latest disappearing act isn’t that.” I face Felix. “Can you please help me find her hair or any other DNA for Vlad?”
I don’t tell him about my earlier futile hair search. It might bias Felix to give up too easily, and besides, it’s not like I was especially thorough.
“I’ll do that.” Felix walks over to the couch and looks in the crease. Over his shoulder, he says, “Meanwhile, I think you should try using your powers again. Do your best to get a vision about Ariel.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate with all this going on.” I catch myself chewing on my nails and stop.
“You can’t expect to always have visions in a relaxed atmosphere.” Felix turns over another couch cushion. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. For Ariel.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be in my room. Please don’t bother me for a while.”
“I’ll help Felix search,” Fluffster says.
“Just a second,” I say, then pick him up and hug him like a teddy bear.
Some of my tension seems to get absorbed by his heavenly fur, so I put him down and head to my room.
Are his soothing effects a domovoi power, or is every chinchilla like this?
When I get to my room, something that Yaroslav, the bannik, said resurfaces in my mind. A thought that’s been waiting for a quiet moment when something isn’t going wrong.
Meditation is just a means to an end. The key to reaching Headspace is a special type of focus.
Does that mean I can bypass meditation and jump right into that special focus?
It seems unlikely.
Then the word “focus” triggers another idea.
Right before I discovered I’m Cognizant, Nero had me research a company called Rapid Rabbit Biotech and their soon-to-be announced product, a drug called Focusall. Though my presentation about this company at the Alpha One conference turned into a fainting disaster, maybe something good came out of that whole affair.
After all, I still have some samples of the drug—and it has the word “focus” right there in its name.
The more I think about it, the more excited I get.
When I was on Focusall, I was able to finish my work in a fraction of the time it usually takes, and more importantly for Headspace, no matter what I was doing or how much pressure I was under, I was as focused as a Zen monk.
I rummage through my desk drawer and locate the sample bottle.
Hand unsteady, I dry swallow one of the green pills.
According to the company, this medication takes about two hours to kick in, but in my experiments with it, I’d felt it sooner.
Not willing to waste time just waiting, I assume my meditation pose and attempt to get the information I need the old-fashioned way.
I pay attention to my breath and try not to think about all the different ways I can fail. For example, my powers might still be out of commission, thanks to that long vision about gaming with Felix. Or Ariel might be in trouble and get seriously hurt in the time it takes the drug to kick in. Or Focusall might not help me get into Headspace; it wasn’t designed for that. Or—
I banish all the negative thoughts from my mind and make a herculean effort to only pay attention to my breathing.
After a few minutes, my mind clears.
I guess all this meditation practice I’ve been doing is paying dividends now.
In another minute, I’m shocked to feel my palms get warmer.
There’s no way this is Focusall helping.
This is all me.
Of course, the excitement over the palms warming makes the feeling dissipate.
Redoubling my efforts, I completely empty my mind again and breathe.
My palms heat up, and the lightning finally hits my eyes.
I’m bodiless in Headspace again.
Ignoring the safe shapes around me, I think of nothing but Ariel as I migrate forward.
Following some instinct unique to this realm, I stop when I reach a gaggle of warm, purple, popcorn-tasting roundish octahedrons.
Unfortunately, the music coming from these shapes is the most foreboding I’ve ever come across.
“I’m not leaving Headspace until I see this,” I mentally state, though I’m not sure to whom I’m giving this ultimatum.
Before I even attempt the vision, though, I have to make an important decision.
How long should the prognostication be?
If this shape truly sheds light on Ariel’s situation, I want the vision to be as long as possible as a form of reconnaissance. But if this vision is not about Ariel, then I might want it to be extra short, so I can enter Headspace again in the near future.
In fact, could I have two visions in one day if I made one of them as short as possible?
That vision with my name written in Russian was short, and I couldn’t get into Headspace later that day, but that was when I was just starting out. My powers may have grown since then, and two tries would definitely be better than one longer vision.
Thus decided, I start to zoom in on the shapes, over and over.
Given my prior experience with zooming in, this vision will be a couple of seconds, at best.
Assuming it happens at all, that is. I’ve never been able to activate shapes that were this frightening.
Metaphysically gritting my nonexistent teeth, I reach out to touch the shape.
It doesn’t work.
I do it again.
And again.
And again.
And twe
nty more times.
Does time flow normally in the real world as I exist in Headspace? If so, if I keep trying this long enough, the Focusall might kick in.
But would that even help in here?
Unlikely, I decide.
Then again, the very idea of time passing normally “outside” as I float here is unlikely. The couple of times I’ve witnessed other seers have a vision, it happened instantly. At most, they momentarily looked distant.
So, I doggedly keep trying to touch the shape.
Over and over.
On what is likely a millionth attempt, something finally gives, and the shape violently sucks me into itself.
I place my palm on the doorknob.
Before walking in, I can’t help obsessively checking my phone again. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to develop this habit after all. Oh, well. At least I know that it’s 3:24 p.m.
OCD appeased, I open the door and step in.
The windowless and barren giant room is illuminated by halogen lamps from a nearly forty-foot ceiling.
There’s a woman sitting in a chair in the center of the room. Though aviator sunglasses obscure much of her face, I have no doubt this is Ariel. No one else has those perfect cheekbones.
She’s holding a wooden bowl and a matching wooden spoon. The steaming liquid spreads fumes of chicken soup throughout the large space.
With erratic, exaggerated motions that remind me of a marionette, Ariel ladles the soup and places the spoon into her mouth.
Why is she acting like that? Could it be a side-effect of her withdrawal?
“Ariel,” I whisper loudly and take a step forward. “It’s me. Sasha.”
There’s a crack of neck vertebrae as Ariel jerks her head toward me.
Before I can ponder this new bit of odd behavior, someone to my left clears his throat.
Pulse jumping, I raise my gun as I spin around to face the new danger.
I recognize him immediately.
This is Innokentiy, the admiral.
Muscles bulging under his wife-beater shirt, he stands there, his knife out and ready.
The expression on his face is savage. He must be upset over all the cuts, bumps, and bruises he’s gotten because of me.
